Page 240 of Operation: Defiance

He thought about me while preparing to be swallowed by the very organization I’m trying to destroy. That sudden, brutal fact makes my throat tighten until swallowing hurts. Tears blur the screen, and one hits the table, proving I’m still here enough to break.

“You’re insufferable,” I whisper to an empty room that doesn’t answer, and my voice cracks anyway.

Then I head for the kitchen, because he’d expect me to. Because I can’t afford to let my body become a weakness. Because the work still has to get done even if my hands shake while I do it.

I’m nowhere near finished.

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Asher

I catch myself staring at the empty water bottle again. The plastic is dented, the last swallow gone hours ago. They left it here on purpose. So I’ll ask for more. So I’ll give them something they can use.

They won’t bring another. Not until they can hear the dehydration in my voice. One more session? Two?

The walls ripple at the edges if my gaze drifts now. The harsh light turns the room into one continuous expanse of ash white. I pull my focus back to the table before my mind starts inventing things that aren’t there.

The longer they have me, the worse the distortion will get. I’ve started counting the scratches in the table.

At twenty-seven, the door handle clicks. I hold myself still. Flinching gives them a lever they can use, and I’m still sharp enough not to hand it to them on a silver platter.

Chad is first this time, Mark a step behind, tablet in his hand.

They don’t rush, movements as purposeful and slow as the last two sessions, but this time, Chad stays behind me, a hand on the back of the chair while Mark takes a seat across from me.

“Well,” Chad says, leaning closer so his shadow cuts across my forearms, “your partner’s been busy this afternoon.”

Afternoon.

The word makes little sense in this room.

Mark stares pointedly at the empty water bottle, then back at the tablet. “Calder sent us a message. And apparently, she’s been in a sharing mood.” His finger drags across the screen. “A couple of memos, a list of names…”

Chad moves to the side of the chair, his hand coming down on my shoulder with enough pressure, I have to engage my core. “People have been asking questions.”

I keep my breathing steady, my gaze pinned to Mark’s, and the wave of relief buried deep down where they can’t see it.

The clock in my head isn’t the only one running now.

Chad’s fingers dig into the muscle along the top of my shoulder. Not enough to hurt. Yet. A signal that his patience is wearing thin.

“What does she know about the Operational Standards Intensive?” he asks.

I take another slow, steady breath, and keep my expression neutral.

Mark sets the tablet down. I could probably read the screen if I tried, but that’s a tell I won’t give them. “The silent treatment won’t get you very far, Mr. Locke.”

Now this? This I can use.

“You’ve cleared my schedule for the afternoon,” I say, flexing my fingers so the chain scrapes against the metal rings welded to the table.

Mark huffs once. “We’ll try this again, Mr. Locke. What does Raine Calder know about the Operational Standards Initiative?”

The two men go back and forth for at least ten minutes—asking about OSI, about Raine’s whereabouts, and my involvement—before Chad loses patience. He moves quickly, releasing the chain from the metal rings in the table and using it to pull me to my feet.

The sudden shift in position sends my vision fraying at the edges. Before I can orient, I’m facing the wall. The two men work together, freeing one wrist, then the other, only to secure them to rings mounted in the concrete at shoulder height.

The position forces me into a slight lean, my shoulders tight. The muscles in my core, already fatigued, have to work even harder. Mark returns to his chair, while Chad kicks my feet to widen my stance and put more pressure on my wrists. I flex my fingers to maintain circulation. The wall is smooth enough the texture barely registers.